Broder trembled while reciting his vows. He’d composed them himself, in the privacy and silence of his bedroom, and now he felt shy about sharing aloud. The vows seemed too sober for the tone of the occasion, too earnest and raw for the jovial vibe. He steadied himself in Aliana’s gaze. He got through it, then broke down when she spoke hers, sobbing into his sleeve. They kissed. Her dad serenaded the couple with a song written, years ago, for Aliana’s mom. Her parents’ friends clapped. They comprised most of the crowd, aging rockers in open collars, suits paired with Converse or cowboy boots. Broder had wanted something smaller—maybe the courthouse—but he had no say. He wanted the dignity of footwear.
Michael was absent, no RSVP. Broder recognized few of the guests. They’d stopped going to meetings a couple months back. They told themselves it was because they were busy, between work and wedding prep they had no free time, but that was fine, they kept in touch with their sponsors, had each other’s support. In truth, Broder was only at the florist’s twenty hours a week, and Aliana’s mom had handled much of the planning: finding the venue, choosing place settings, vetoing Broder’s proposed floral arrangements. The real reason they skipped meetings was the judgment of others who held the party line that one should stay free of romantic distraction for that first sober year. They’d invited their sponsors, but no one else from Recovery. All of which accounted for Ricky Cortes at table eight. The bride had insisted on the presence of at least a few friends of Broder’s, and he’d long lost touch with the high school guys.
Of course Ricky befriended the bridesmaids, lining up shots, leading the dance-floor charge. He was the same showman Broder remembered from college: bow-tied and suspendered, hands and mouth in perpetual motion—laughing, performing—part impresario, part shifty-eyed card shark.
The Emmas gave a giggly, rhyming toast and the bride was handed a champagne flute. Broder scanned the room for her sponsor, who appeared, at that moment, to be immersed in her phone. And the bride clinked flutes with her high school friends, and she took, or pretended to take, a tiny sip. Broder couldn’t tell which. She danced with her dad to one of his own songs, and people clapped and sang along. Broder was supposed to dance with his mom, but she couldn’t be found, so they skipped it. His mom, it turned out, was blasting the AC in her rental car. When Broder found her, she said she was hot, she was sorry, she wasn’t used to this weather. He tried to pat her shoulder and she kept saying sorry.
People kept whisking Aliana away—for photos, for dances, for passionate hugs—and there were so many people for Broder to talk to, all the bride’s relatives and family friends. These people had known her since childhood—they knew her, in one sense, better than he did—and Broder wasn’t sure what, exactly, to say: Hi, my name is Broder, I’m a heroin addict, and I work as a florist—an assistant florist—and yes, I signed a prenup, thanks for your concern. But that was okay. These strangers didn’t really have questions, they just wanted to perform old stories for a receptive new target, telling Broder about shrooming with Jim Morrison on this very beach, or Dennis Wilson getting seasick on somebody’s yacht. Out by the ashtray he encountered the Emmas, who bummed him a Spirit and then made him suffer through a lengthy discourse on the difficulty—no, no, the impossibility—of monogamy in this day and age. They were into the whole polyamory thing, the whole pseudo-Buddhist Bay Area pansexual thing. The Emmas spoke rapidly and rubbed at their noses. Ricky must have been to blame.
Aliana and Broder posed for more photos and cut the cake, but then the tide took the bride back onto the dance floor, where she did the Running Man with a second cousin’s kids, and got grindy with Cousin Alix and Cat-eyed Corrinne. They slapped each other’s asses and laughed, and Broder watched. Until he got sober, he’d never been shy. He reminded himself that in just a few hours the crowd would disperse and he’d be alone with his beautiful bride. And finally Broder would take off his belt and untuck and unbutton his constricting shirt. He’d lie with her in his arms, and inhale her scent, and only then would the day’s tiny dramas and mishaps take on a kind of humorous charm, because Broder had learned that there was nothing so lonely as the ongoing moment and the best part of life was the looking back.
Aliana’s dad pulled Broder aside. He swayed and placed a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. He swilled his scotch and, slurring, gave, or tried to give, a sentimental speech, explaining that a florist was a noble profession, a humble profession, hands in the earth and all that. Broder nodded. Besides, said her dad, they were glad she was sober—he swilled more scotch—glad that their daughter was happy and sober. He winked at Broder. Aliana’s mom hardly spoke to the groom or met his eye, and the groom didn’t blame her. His own mom was gone, but he talked to his dad, who seemed confused by the affair. But Broder could see he was trying: to believe in this fantasy, to have a good time. It helped that Patty was there, and that she was black—it gave them cachet among the music-biz folks who had stories about Jimi and Aretha as well.
At midnight, they bused everyone from beach club to beach house for an all-night bonfire. Instruments came out: bongos, fiddle, acoustic guitars. There were coolers of beer and s’mores for the kids. Cat-eyed Corrinne
